Harrowmont, Ruins The castle and all its grounds had been destroyed. Smoke still streamed from the ashen stone walls. A few bodies were strewn about, while most had been gathered in a pyre and set afire themselves. Farming men, two of them riding on mules, noticed the crisp castle from afar. Word hadn’t reached many of the traveling small folk as of yet. Arb, the older one of the two, took the lead as he went up the steep mountain road. It was coated in a thick layer of snow, from the storm the night before. The mules hooves constantly stuck in the snow, proving to be a long, harrow some ride. The only sounds throughout the whole mountain was the soft echo of the mules. Once they had crested the mountain, they came upon the remains. “Arb. . .”The younger one, Jekob, muttered under his breathe. The bodies were the worst. One was of a woman, her dress charred on her body. It had been a nightslip, but expensive at that. In her swollen red hands was a silver necklace. “What. . .what happen’d?” Jekob looked to the older man. Arb had lowered himself off his mule, and slowly walked amongst the devastation. All of it was cold, even the burnt bodies. Jekob slowly followed Arb, pausing to stare at the pyre of bodies. On the top was a babe. “Is this. . Wus this. . .House Harrermunt?” Jekob asked cautiously. “Nun oth’r.” Arb growled back, approaching what was the main entrance to the castle. The door was gone, its outer shell collapsed. A hand, pale and froze, stuck out from under the rubble. It never moved. Arb climbed over all the crumbled stone, into the castle. Jekob cast a look over his shoulder once more before entering as well. All of the walls that remained were no longer a light grey, but a dark raven black. Patches of the roof had collapsed here and there, and lay in big groups of rock. Snow had fallen in as well, making their trek slippery and wet. “I don’t like it hur.” Jekob spoke, but not too loudly. He was afraid of waking. . .whatever had done this. Arb continued on, down the endless large halls until he came upon an opening to a large cavernous room. Windows were placed strategically all up and down it, but they had all been shattered and lay in pieces. At the far end of the room, on a raised dais, was a decorated silver throne. A tapestry lay across it, having fallen from, the ceiling. “Damn. . .” Arb said that rather loudly. The tapestry moved a bit, and then slid away. Underneath lay a man in armor. His helmet was gone though, and his face could be seen. His eyes stared at them, both having turned a pure white. His skin, the parts that still remained, was a deep blotchy purple red. Arb stepped backwards once, as the white eyes blinked. A deep groan from the throat of the man, scratchy and broken, shook the room. And then the man rose. Jekob screamed, turning head over heels to exit the room. Arb was hollering at him, but Jekob wasn’t thinking straight enough to hear it. He could hear the sounds of clanging footsteps on the floor as he scrambled out the doorway and through the halls. He slipped once or twice. Casting one look behind him, he saw Arb frozen in place. He suddenly fell over, and behind him stood the undead knight with a bloody stone in his hands. Jekob then realized that on the man’s armor was the sigil of House Harrowmont. And the tears were frozen on his face as he ran from the castle. Atop his mule, down the mountain he rode again. They fell once, and went into a deep snowy roll. He rose from the snow, pulling his mule up. He turned to stare at the castle once more, and thought he heard that same deep growl. Only one thing remained on his mind as he ran. Ghosts haunt the halls of Harrowmont.